hubris and hamartia
by QuietLittleVoices
Summary: "Do you love me?" he asks, eyes closed and breathing heavy. You watch his eyes move behind the lids, watch his eyelashes tremble and shake like he doesn't actually want to know the answer. "Yes," you breathe against his lips. "Until the end." ((Dean/Cas, End!verse, Off Screen Canon MCD, Ambiguous/Bittersweet Ending))


You can hear the record player turning, scratching its way across the vinyl under the chords of the song. You're familiar with it but you don't know what it's called or who it's by; it doesn't matter to you. Especially not now, as you focus on the rain falling. It used to be your favourite sound, before; you could hear it in Heaven. Rain hitting the earth, wetting dry and cracked ground. Seeds getting water. Rejuvenation. Life. The smell of the dust after the rain.

Now the sound of the fat drops hitting the tin roof only reminds you that there's an emptiness where your Grace should be. Where, at one time, you thought he should be.

He knocks the door open like a hurricane and the raindrops come in at his heels. It swings on its hinges and hits the wall, bouncing once and the drifting idly until he grabs it again and shuts it, more quietly now than before because he's looking at you and he thinks you're asleep. You're grateful that you're worth that much to him.

You want to speak up and tell him that the rain that's falling outside your door is the same rain that fell on the ancient Greeks during the siege of Troy; you want to tell him that Aristotle would find him beautiful, would write tragedies about the lines in his face; you want to tell him that you've fallen from Grace, so that's step one. You keep your mouth shut, instead. You watch him move like a toy soldier, a puppet with its strings cut – mechanical, stilted, but still commanding. Something you want to watch, if only to see when he'll collapse. You know that the sun will collapse before he does, such is the nature of his pride.

He kicks off his boots, letting them land with a dull thud against the wall. Next comes his jacket, discarded in a damp heap on the floor. It will still be cold and wet in the morning. You know that he doesn't care; there's another jacket in the closet and it's almost identical.

"Are you awake?" he whispers. You open your eyes and watch him as he walks over to the bed and lies next to you, on top of the covers. He's stiff, with his hands folded over his stomach and his eyes turned to the ceiling like the patterns of water damage will tell him the secret to the universe. Maybe it will; you don't know anything for sure anymore, only that watching him answers some of your hidden questions.

The rain keeps falling outside and a cool breeze finds its way into the cabin making you both shiver but you don't say anything. He clears his throat and speaks up first. "Tomorrow, we kill the devil."

You don't say anything and he doesn't expect you to.

"Do you ever think we made a mistake?" he asks. He's not looking at you so you don't answer. "That maybe we could have had something good, if things were different?" He turns his head and meets your eyes.

All you can do is nod. "Yes," you answer. "I do."

He reaches over and laces his fingers through the hair at the back of your head then leans forwards and kisses you deeply. It's different than any kiss you've had before – this one says all the words he knows he'll never have the chance to tell you. "Do you love me?" he asks, eyes closed and breathing heavy.

You watch his eyes move behind the lids, watch his eyelashes tremble and shake like he doesn't actually want to know the answer. "Yes," you breathe against his lips. "Until the end."

He kisses you like the storm that rages on outside, because this is your last night on Earth and if it isn't the time for confessions then there never will be one. He kisses you like you're slipping away because that's just the facts of it. And you kiss him back as if you could breathe your life into his veins and give him more time. Because tomorrow you kill the devil but neither of you have the illusion that you'll make it out alive.

* * *

><p><em>Twenty-four hours have passed on Earth when you see him again. You're surprised that it's really him and not just a memory. The knowledge that this was how it was supposed to be warms the soul you didn't think you had.<em>

_"__Hello," he says. He's sitting on a couch you don't recognize in a house you never visited. _

_You sit next to him without a word and he reaches out and covers your hand with his._

_"__I love you."_

_You smile and turn your hand over, linking your fingers together. "And I, you."_


End file.
